Reunion
by bokhi
Summary: Four years after the mansion incident, Rebecca Chambers runs into a wayward piece of her past in a most unexpected way.
1. Chapter 1

Reunion

Note: This was written for the Resident Evil kinkmeme, for the prompt, _leather._ I will not be posting the full MA version on this site.

Part 1

She didn't recognize him at first.

There had been some rough, trucker types and tough-looking bikers hanging around the parking lot of the diner when she went in. Rebecca, tired as she was, had enough sensibility to note them on her way in. One of them in particular - a scruffy, hunched-over man in a leather jacket - seemed to be eyeing her. She didn't want trouble; she had enough of that without trying. So she noted them, and kept moving: not making eye-contact, but not acting nervous, either. Survival of the fittest: weakness was an invitation to be picked off and culled.

The diner was old-school, pleather seats, squeaky stools and the smell of beer, cigarettes, grease and dead-end dreams. This little hamlet didn't even show up on most maps, one of those in-between places for travellers to rest up before reaching their ultimate destination. All it boasted in terms of commerce was a Husky gas station, two equally cheap and seedy looking motels, this diner, a dollar store, and, predictably, a MacDonald's. The road in and out was flanked by mountains on one side, and a sheer drop on the other; she'd seen signs on the way in that cautioned drivers to be on the lookout for falling rocks, of all things.

Rebecca sank down into the old, stained seat of her booth. Black coffee and their house special, a shepherd pot pie with french fries, followed by a slice of apple pie. The food was surprisingly good, but then again, everything was good when one had just driven for six relentless hours into the middle of nowhere.

The petite ex-medic sank back into her seat with a small sigh. Food did wonders for one's mood. She cupped her hands around her steaming mug of coffee and sipped, letting her eyes rove around the diner. There was an old jukebox playing in the corner, its scratchy music just barely a whisper over the general noise of the diner – conversation, clattering plates and utensils, footsteps, and the sounds floating out of the open window of the kitchen – and if she strained, she could just barely make out the tune...

Smiling to herself, Rebecca turned to flag the waitress for another cup of coffee – she'd do some work on her thesis once she got to her motel room, and coffee was just the thing for it – when she spotted him. Again. The same scruffy looking man who'd been staring at her in the parking lot was in the diner – and he was looking right at her. He was sitting in a corner by himself, working his way through his dinner, no doubt, and when she caught him looking, he turned casually and took a sip from his mug as though it had all been a part of one, coincidental movement, but he wasn't fooling her. He'd been staring at her.

Under the low, steady hum of sudden nerves, Rebecca decided against coffee and settled for her bill. Calmly, casually, Rebecca paid for her dinner and left the restaurant at a relaxed pace, not even once looking over her shoulder. Even so, she inwardly cursed herself. She didn't have a gun. Not even a little knife or a can of mace. Taking a gun over the border was out of the question – she wasn't a member of law enforcement anymore, and she didn't even own any personal firearms – and her little pocket knife was sitting a suitcase in her motel room.

It was dark when she left. She'd left her car in the motel parking lot, largely because she hadn't expected to stay so long, but also because the diner was literally across the street; the wind nipped at her nose and sent empty cans clattering against the pavement. Past the ring of warm yellow light emanating from the diner was another world: chilly, dark, and empty. It was almost like a ghost town; hilariously, it was the gaudy lights from the motel sign winking at her from across the street, and the visible golden arches a little ways past that, that gave her confidence.

Something clattered from behind her and in the alley way. Rebecca stiffened, eyes straining in the darkness past the diner. She hadn't heard anyone leave the diner after her, but -

- There was a soft snuffling sound, and she stiffened. Four years. Four years since the train, the mansion, the mind-breaking terror of Umbrella's machinations, and she still expected undead things to tear out of the dark. Slowly, Rebecca started to walk, her eyes never leaving the dark spot where the noise had come from. _Just move it, Princess. _ It was probably just a stray dog. Or a raccoon. They had those here, she was pretty sure.

There was some more snuffling, then the sound of metal striking cement; an aluminium lid off a trash can came rolling out of the dark into the ring of light before falling over on its side. More snuffling and sniffing and – there it was. It wasn't a zombie. It was a dog. The creature wagged its tail in her direction, then went back to snuffling through the trash. Releasing a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, Rebecca stuffed her hands into her sweater pockets and started walking to the crosswalk.

And of course, that's exactly when the trouble started.

She'd been about to jaywalk across the street - there was no point in waiting for the traffic light to turn if there were no cars - when she heard someone joyriding up the road. Fine, she could wait until they passed. Except they didn't. A group of motorcyclists came tearing up the road, laughing and yelling, and very likely far too drunk to be driving so fast - or at all - and past her. Most of them. One of them stopped right where she was with an obnoxious screech and the smell of burning rubber; as a matter of practicality, Rebecca took a step back. But then another - his friend, very likely - _rode up_ the sidewalk so that she was nearly hemmed in, and another stopped just so on the fringes of their half-triangle, watching.

"Awww, hey babe, whatcha doin' out 'ere all alone?" His friends snickered.

"A pretty girl like you shouldn't be alone," said another, "how about you come with us and we'll show you a good time?" Rebecca felt a single eyebrow rise up incredulously at the last bit. Right. A good time, because they were all very obviously not-drunk and oh-so-very charming, and not at all threatening. _Uh huh._

"No, thank you," she said, flatly, and made to walk around them - her heart was pounding, but she wasn't going to let them see that. She'd faced down zombies and giant insects. If the first wasn't proof of her mettle, the second certainly was; but as it were, she was unarmed, and there were three of them. She wasn't going to delude herself as to what her chances would be if it came down to a fight. Physical strength had never really been her strong point. She was a fair shot with a gun, but that didn't do her any good if she didn't have one; all she had were the clothes on her back, a half-pack of gum, her wallet, and her keys with its little flashlight key-chain.

_I am never going to walk around in a small hick town after dark without a gun again, _she thought to herself. _And here I thought Canadians were supposed to be friendly_. As she stepped around the first guy who was blocking the crosswalk, two things happened. First the man on the motorbike reached out and looped his arm around her slim waist, fast for a drunk guy – well, apparently he wasn't really very drunk, after all. Second, there was the sound of the diner door opening and closing in the distance, and the sound of firm footsteps eating up ground. Rebecca wondered if she should scream, but her pride bristled at the thought of screaming like a little damsel because she was cornered by a couple of punks who'd likely wet their pants if they ever even come _close_ to the horrors she'd lived through.

"Aw, come on babe, don't be like that. We'll show you a good time, we promise."

"Cross our hearts, little lady. Cross our hearts." It was a bit too dark to really make out their faces, but Rebecca could imagine the expressions they'd be wearing; she knew what this was really about. This wasn't three guys trying to hit on a pretty girl. This was three guys engaging in a little machismo by threatening - or assaulting - a lone woman on the streets.

"I said, 'No thanks.'" Rebecca tried to brush off his arm and keep moving, but he refused to let go.

"Hey babe, that's no way to treat some nice guys trying to show you a good time." And there it was. Without warning, Rebecca drew back her fist and punched him, putting her weight into it like she'd been taught; he yowled, letting go and falling off his bike in the process. Rebecca darted back and started running for the diner. She heard swearing and clattering and the rapid footsteps of pursuit.

_You stepped in it now, Princess. _Rebecca was good at coping. She'd coped when she walked into a train full of living dead and she'd coped again when she'd walked into a mansion with more of the same - and she'd coped when she walked away from one Billy Cohen, ex-Marine, to walk into yet another mansion from the nightmares of Stephen King and George Romero combined. Part of that coping was control. She didn't let herself think about certain things, unless she needed to; zombies were one of them. Even when she'd been working with anti-Umbrella agents and actively handling specimens, she had only thought about them in context of her job. She didn't dwell on what a dead man smelled like three hours after the fact, or what he looked like when he slowly lifted his rotting arms and moaned out of a half-decayed jaw; she saved that for her nightmares. And she only let herself think about Billy for two minutes per day, three if she felt like being generous; anything more would drive her - not _mad,_ per se, but certainly _down_. The man was gone. There was no use dwelling on things that would only serve to root her in place.

Except sometimes, she would slip up. Sometimes, she would hear snuffling in the alleyway and expect an undead dog. Or sometimes, she'd see a flash of arm with a black tattoo and expect a cocky smile and attitude to go with it, and sometimes, just sometimes, she would hear his voice in her head with a quip or a piece of advice.

Like now.

She heard something behind her - _Might wanna duck now, dollface _- and dropped, putting a hand out onto the pavement to bring herself into a forceful pivot; one of the men had been right behind her, reaching out to grab her. He stumbled, his hand finding only empty air where she'd been. Rebecca took that opportunity to kick him in one of his kneecaps, using his own force against him. He dropped with an empathic, "Bitch!" and she just got up and kept running - only to run face first into someone's chest. A very broad, masculine chest in a leather jacket.

"Are these men bothering you, Miss?" It wasn't really a question. They were very obvious bothering her - they'd chased her all across the damn parking lot, after all. But her blood wasn't suddenly roaring in her ears because of a disingenuous question, it was roaring in her ears because of the man who'd asked it. That voice. That low, husky voice that rumbled up and out of his chest. _Whatever you say, Miss Do-it-Yourself. _She'd recognize _that _anywhere. Mouth suddenly dryer than it had been a moment ago, Rebecca tilted her head up.

He winked. Breathing was suddenly difficult. She forced herself to take a deep breath, catching a whiff of his smell - leather, sweat, coffee, and _Billy _ - and she felt warmth curl in the pit of her stomach. Distantly, over the pounding in hear chest and veins and head, she heard herself say with impressive calm,

"Yes. They are."

"Aw, we were just playin' man." The ruffians were backing away – there were sounds coming from the diner, and she belatedly realized that there were people coming out.

"Scram, you damn punks," said someone from the vicinity of the door. There was a noise of general agreement. Blinking, Rebecca took a faltering step from his chest and turned around; she felt large, gloved hands come up around her shoulders, steadying her. It was amazing how she could feel his warmth through the leather and fabric between them. The man she'd kicked in the knees was limping back to his vehicle – _good luck riding that out of town, bud _– supported by one of his friends. One of the hands on her shoulders released her and she felt a flicker of loss; when she looked up, she saw him wave towards the people at the door - presumably a sign that meant, _all-clear, go back to your booze._

And then, just like that, they were alone. Rebecca turned to look at him – properly this time, and shook her head with a small laugh. Billy just grinned.

"Struck dumb by my beauty, I see." Rebecca rolled her eyes and smiled.

"I didn't recognize you." He snickered at that.

"I know." She reached up to push his bangs out of his eyes – somehow, he'd managed to make shorter hair messier than his mullet had ever been – when he stopped her by gently taking her hand in his. "Not here." He jerked his head towards a rather beat up truck sitting in the parking lot. "How 'bout I give you a ride?"

He hadn't meant it like _that_. She _knew _he hadn't meant it like that. But suddenly the man she'd been forcibly refraining from fantasizing about for four damn years was here, in the flesh, and she couldn't stop her brain from taking it..._like that_. Her brain supplied her with a mental picture of him _giving her a ride_ and she flushed as she nodded, thankful for the dark. They turned together to head to the truck, Billy stuffing a hand in the pocket of his jacket while the other lifted as though to rest on the small of her back; Rebecca half-tensed in anticipation, doing her best to act casual, when the hand dropped again to tuck itself into his pocket. She tried not to look disappointed.

They walked together to the truck, side by side, close enough to touch but not touching.


	2. Interlude

Reunion

Interlude

He'd recognized her right away, of course.

It hadn't been that hard; of the two of them, he had changed most, a victim of necessity. He'd bleached his hair a little lighter – just enough for a subtle little change, no need to be loud – and cut it as regularly as he could manage. Long hair on men stood out. He made sure he had bangs; hair did a lot to change the shape of a man's face, after all, and took care to dress like the locals. No wife-beaters or t-shirts, though: his tattoo was too distinct.

At one point, he'd tried growing out a beard to obscure his looks even more, but it only served to give him a distinct look of untrustworthiness, so he'd settled for being scruffy instead – something like a permanent five-o-clock shadow.

So there he was, trying to decide if it was worth going in the diner for a meal or not when he saw her – little Becca, still so sweetly doll-faced with short hair and wide-set eyes and a confident stride – and he'd felt his heart suddenly do a little skid-halt double-take in recognition. Suddenly he didn't care too much about whether it was worth getting an overpriced beer or not; his brain kicked into overdrive and started yammering, _Rebecca!_ and then s_o maybe I should say hi_ and _wait that might be a little dangerous __what if she has __company__? _and _is it zombie__-time__ again?_ and _well fuck, those are some dangerous curves __little lady_ and then _oh shit she's looking this way what do I do_ - until her eyes moved over him and away, casually, as though he was a part of the scenery.

That shouldn't have stung, except it did; it also made his decision for him, because he was, after all, a fugitive on the run and for her sake, it was best if he kept his distance. She'd already risked more than just her neck for him; she'd risked her job, her reputation, and everything she'd worked for in her  
>eighteen years of living. So if he had any decency left in him, he'd get up and quit loitering and get his ass back in his truck and hie off to a motel room.<p>

So why was he pulling open the door to the diner instead of the door to his truck? _Oh hell._ Distracted by this unexpected turn of events, he'd settled for ordering the house special, belatedly realizing that he didn't even like shepherd's pie, and a hot cup of coffee. He was going to need the caffeine, probably. In his distraction he'd sat by the window facing the lot – something he usually refrained from, if only to decrease his general visibility – but it turned out to be something of a boon and a curse. On one hand, it meant that it gave him a nice, unobstructed view of Rebecca sitting all alone in a booth against the far wall – all he had to do was turn his head just shy of ninety degrees to see her. On the other hand, it meant that...he had a nice, unobstructed view of Rebecca, and he was alternately turning his head in her direction and forcing himself to_ stop it_ only seconds later, which had the overall effect of making him look like some sort of drug addict with a twitch.

Also, he thought she'd caught him staring that last time. Scratch that – she'd _definitely _seen him staring that last time, and he'd probably freaked her out a little. _Goddammit Cohen. Get your shit together._ He watched Rebecca leave out of the corner of his eye, morosely telling himself that it was _definitely_ better this way. Rebecca was an exceptionally bright young woman with a promising career ahead of her; the last thing she needed was to be seen with some fugitive in the middle of the goddamn Canadian wilderness. And besides – it wasn't as though they were _friends_. They'd been partners in survival, and whereas she'd certainly trusted him – or pitied him – enough to let him go, that didn't mean anything other than that he'd been right about her basic goodness and innocence. Rebecca simply was not the sort of woman to let an innocent man hang, and for whatever reason, she had decided that he was innocent of his crime. That was all. They'd been a cop and a crook who'd come to respect each other and parted on good terms. End of story._ Just let it go Cohen. Just let it go. _He snorted softly – and a bit bitterly – into his coffee cup. _If only._

Well, he wasn't going to think about her – this - anymore. He had a job to finish, which meant he was going to crash nice and early tonight so he could get a move-on nice and early tomorrow morning so that he could get his damn pay cheque, and then – well. Maybe he'd go meet a nice lady or two once he hit Vancouver and lost himself in the crowds there. A tall, leggy blonde with pouty lips. Most definitely not anyone slim, short, and brunette with a penchant for biochemistry and a sweet little doll-face – okay, yeah, no, he wasn't going to go there. Leggy. Blonde. Pouty. A bosom to drown in. Along the _other _path lay only madness, or at least endless nights of frustration.

He'd had enough of those already, thank you.

There was some hollering outside of the happy-drunk variety, and then the screech of rubber on cement; Billy rolled his eyes as he drank the rest of his coffee. He started on his shepherd pot pie, enjoying it somewhat less than the coffee. For some reason, he was tense. It wasn't precisely the same tension he'd had four years ago – he'd never forget that particular feeling of waiting, half-expecting and half-dreading to hear a scream whenever Rebecca was away and out of sight – but close. He didn't particularly like the idea of little Miss Do-It-Herself wandering around alone in the dark, but that was ridiculous; the woman had been a S.T.A.R.S. officer, had faced down zombies and giant leech creatures and lived to tell the tale. Surely he was being -

- wasn't that Rebecca? Billy stopped eating, straining his eyes as he stared out the window. It was dark out now, and the bright lights of the diner had sent his night vision to ruin. Billy leaned closer and squinted. Yup, it was definitely Rebecca, and she was definitely in trouble. Again.

Billy didn't even remember slapping his money down on the table; he got up and shoved his way to the door amidst protests and laughing calls of, "Hey now, where's the fire?"; he acknowledged the waitress with a brusque, "Keep it," when she hollered that he'd forgotten his change, and then he was out the door, not quite running but moving very quickly. He could see them clearly now, three men on one little girl – what a bunch of shit-sacks – and suddenly his knuckles were very, very itchy in a way they hadn't been for a good long time. It'd been a while since he'd even wanted to administer a righteous ass-kicking; four years, in fact.

Of course, there had been no leaving her alone after that, and that was precisely why he was now Billy Coen, fugitive outlaw, sitting in a truck with Rebecca Chambers, straight-laced copper, rather than Billy Coen, fugitive outlaw, getting shit-faced drunk in his motel room in preparation for a nice long drive down to the next town over.

This probably was not a good thing, but he couldn't muster up enough will-power to care. Rebecca peered up at him from the passenger seat with the smile that had never quite left her face since the parking lot. That smile made him careless; he'd just barely stopped himself from resting his hand on the small of her back, a thoughtless little action he'd started as though he'd had every right to. Except he didn't. He'd never had any right, and he certainly didn't have any right now. He'd noticed her stiffen, just in time to keep from embarrassing himself.

There was a certain silence between them, the sort of silence that was stretched taut by questions pressing up against it. Billy broke first.

"So," he drawled, voice huskier than he'd intended, "where to, Princess?"


End file.
